Celestial Navigation
by TheCleverDame
Summary: Sam Winchester, the sheriff of the isolated Maine hamlet Little Tall Island, is facing the toughest challenge of his career. Not only is a devastating winter storm bearing down on his community, but also brings a series of sinister events. With the help of his brother, Sam struggles to hold the community together, as well as his budding relationship with the reader. SMUT & Violence
1. Chapter 1

_Right here and now_ , as an old friend used to say, we are in the fluid present, where clear sightedness never guarantees perfect vision. _Here:_ we begin our tour of Little Tall Island, starting where all good stories start, down at the docks. A half dozen fishing boats bob aft to stern on the glassy water. Fishing vessels lined in a neat rows, battened down for the night. The _Now:_ late on a Friday evening in mid October, as a chilling wind whips in off the water, bringing with it a bitter reminder that winter is never far away.

The 2010 US census placed the population of Little Tall Island (just off the coast of Maine) at a whopping 563 souls. In the summer, that number surges well past two thousand; between tourists and seasonal cottages the island bustles with life. But inevitably when the weather turns cold and the temperature drops, the faint hearted head for the mainland, leaving the locals to their own devices.

We begin our journey moving from the docks up Main Street, passing by The Salt Dog. Inside this fine establishment one of the two part-time deputy sheriffs, Palmer Anderson, is seven beers into a twelve beer night. He'll regret it later when he's trying desperately to sober up for the investigation, but we'll come to that part of the story in good time. We continue up the road passing empty storefronts until we come to the Sheriff's office. It's not much to look at with its yellowing letters peeling from the window pane. Inside, Beatrice Clark - dispatcher, secretary and grandmother of two - has just poured her second cup of coffee. It's rare that she's working this late, but after tossing and turning while sleep skirted her grasp she decided she might as well get some work done. The sheriff wants the records digitized; everything's about computers nowadays. Bea's never been a fan of technology, she prefers a pen and paper, but she's not one to complain. This task is job security, so she begins scanning and tagging documents as the dispatch phones rings.

We leave Beatrice to her call and move on, past Merrill's Grocery and Tack, then the one room office of the Little Tall Gazette and beyond of the end of Main Street where the building begins to fade away as quickly as the lights of the town. The roads split off like veins as we head south up the sharp incline of Sidewinder Road, gliding along the twisting coast into the black of night. The waves crash into jagged rock as the elevation begins to climb.

We find ourselves at a quaint cottage home near the top of cliffs and this is where we come to the beginning of our tale.

Near the water, in the dark.

 **October 7**

Sam uncorks a bottle of wine as you hold up your glass for him to fill it. You'll never know what he had to go through to get it and never find out if he has anything to say about it. He wanted advice, so he asked Kathleen Smith who works the bar down at Cooper's Lobster Pound: his first mistake. Kathy smiled slyly as if she knew exactly what he was up to and gave him a recommendation along with a wink, _lucky girl._

He asked Laurel at the market if she could have it shipped from the mainland; she grinned with a pen between her teeth and scribbled on her weekly purchase order as she inquired: _sure thing Sheriff, this for something special?_

After the first sip you nod in approval, and he's relieved he went to the trouble of cooking and wine pairings. Truth be told, he's just happy you're in his house, listening to his terrible stories and by some small miracle, enjoying yourself.

"So I was working the overnight shift, patrolling up Anderson Rock." Everyone on the island knows Anderson Rock. It's a pet name for the mountain on the north side of Little Tall Island. Hardly anyone goes up there except for summer tourists and teenagers looking for spot to party. Typically the only thing one finds up there are empty beer cans and used condoms. Sam takes a sip of his drink, greasing his gears, hoping a little libation will help with his storytelling abilities.

It's your second date. The first went well, just dinner at your place. He asked you out and you immediately offered to cook, a little undtrational but safer that way. This is a small town and the last thing you wanted was to have dinner at one of the two restaurants where half the island can smirk over the spectacle of the Sam Winchester and Y/N struggling to make small talk over a plate of undercooked flank steak.

"Nothing good happens up there past dark," you chuckle, forking a bite of halibut.

"You got that right," he confirms. "I pull over a car with a Vermont plate and expired tags. I know right from the jump that this is mainlander. I call it in to Bea and have her run the plate. Sure as shit this rusted out old sedan comes back as a stolen vehicle."

"Oh," you're genuinely invested at this point; not much happens here save for drunks and poachers. "This," you point your knife toward the half eaten fish. "this is amazing."

"Thank you," he nods, raising his glass toward you. "I Googled the recipe."

"I didn't mean to interrupt, but please continue."

"I'm thinking stolen car, who knows, this guy could have a gun on him so I better play it safe. I radio to Palmer for back up, I know he can't be far away because we were having coffee ten minutes ago. He responds, _'copy, show me enroute...ohh fuck'_ then dead silence. My heart stopped you know? I'm trying to figure out what could have possibly happened. 'Was there a car accident? Maybe this guy in the sedan has a buddy who's been waiting to ambush us.' Bea's calling him too, _'Palmer are you code four? Palmer are you there?'"_

"Code four?" you ask in a whisper, as if the softness of your voice will somehow negate the interruption.

"Sorry, it means no further assistance needed. My heart is thumping out of my chest when he doesn't respond, so I know it's gotta be something bad. After about a minute of dead air he's back on the line all out of breath, his voice is shaking and he says _'Affirm...I am code four...I thought I hit an animal….but I didn't. Show me en route.'_ "

"Oh, God," you hold your wine glass with two hands. "What happened?"

Sam holds up his finger, laughing to himself. He sets down his fork and knife, resting both forearms on the arms of his chair and leaning forward. "He shows up about five minutes later and assists me with the car stop. Turns out the guy driving is the owner. He reported it stolen during a family dispute but never took the time to update his local department when his brother brought it back. Palmer's distracted the whole time, looking over his shoulder. He's sweating and pale, the guy looks like he's seen a ghost. Once we clear the stop he takes me back down to where it happened and explains...you know the Allen brothers that live halfway up the mountain?"

"Ahuh, Grant and Steven, I'm familiar. They egged old Mrs. Holder's house last Halloween. It took me two days and a power washer to get it clean."

"Well, trust me when I tell you they are resourceful boys. I guess it gets pretty boring up there on the mountain, so to kill the time they construct these oversized cardboard cutouts of real-looking cats, dogs, coyotes and put them in the roads after dark. They prop them up with sticks and tie them to ropes. Then, they hide behind the trees and wait. When Palmer drove up they pulled the rope and made it look like it was walking across the road as he ran it over. He shows me this mangled piece of cardboard in the dirt of what I'm guessing was coyote and the only part of it that's not torn up is the genitalia which had to be twenty-four inches. I swear to you, Y/N, you had to see it to believe it. There was a two foot cardboard animal penis sticking straight up in the middle of the road. I couldn't stop laughing and Palmer so was mad, in fact I'm not sure he'll ever forgiven me."

Your giggle turns into a full belly laugh as you imagine Palmer's stoic face, red and indignant. From a lifetime of passing interaction even you know he has next to no sense of humor, "What…" you pause trying to stifle your amusement, "What did you do to them? The Allen boys I mean."

"They're just kids, I called Laura, and told her what her sons were up to. From the sound of her voice I'm pretty sure her punishment was worse than anything I could dole out." Sam's toothy grin makes your cheeks warm.

"A fitting outcome," you sigh, leaning back in your seat. Sam picks up the bottle of chardonnay and tips it your direction, silently asking if you want a third glass. "Why not? You're going to drive me home, right?"

"Of course. I'll even let you sit in the front seat of the cruiser," he teases. "We can figure out how to get your car in the morning."

You've known him almost all you're life. If you really think back you can remember your mother warning you about the Winchesters, _the whole family is a disaster waiting to happen._

Things were different back then, a different town in a different time. It's not that much has changed, except for that Sam chose to deviate from his father's footsteps, opting for law enforcement. Your mother doesn't have the same aversion to Sam now these days, _he's the only good thing to come out of that family._

Yes, she would approve, but you're not going to tell her only two dates in. It's a miracle that someone hasn't already found out and offered it up the gossip mongers. People talk in towns like this, mostly because there's not much else to do.

It's cold, but neither of you mind. You're on the balcony cloaked in a flannel blanket, just settling next to him on the porch swing with a fourth glass of wine when the call comes in. Sam lifts his arm, wrapping it around your shoulders as you lean into his side. It's the first time you've have been this close and it makes you giddy. This kind of rush of excitement has been a long time coming.

"You're a good cook, you're funny, and I took a look at your book collection so I know you like to read… I feel like there has to be something wrong with you." Grinning you lift your head turn toward him.

"Well, I am a Winchester," a shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, for a moment he looks almost bashful. "and I'm kind of a nerd."

"Good thing I like both," your voice sounds more _come hither_ than you intended, but it doesn't seem to phase him as he leans forward, a hand moving to the side of your face. With his thumb at your jaw he pulls you closer, just a breath away from your first kiss.

 _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._ His cell phone rattles on the side table, interrupting the fragile moment.

"Sorry," he mumbles, closing in eyes in a moment of hesitation before moving away to answer. "Hello...no it's fine, what's going on…"

You try not to eavesdrop and wander to the railing, staring out into the dark. If you close your eyes you can hear the waves rolling, the distant ebb and flow as water meets shore. His house is small, but it's right on the coast nestled amongst the cliffs on the south end of the island. Not many people live on this side, which is part of the reason he chose it.

It's more than he could ever afford on a police salary, but Sam bought the place from Ernest Smith right before he moved to Bangor to be closer to his family in his twilight years. Ernest had always had a soft spot for Sam. He liked that Sam always called him sir and brought him donuts from town in the winter when the roads were bad. So when he was ready to sell the place and transition to an old folks home he asked Sam if he wanted the place. _I'll give you a great deal._

There's a strong breeze blowing in and soon winter will come with it. As you tighten the blanket around your shoulders, you feel Sam behind you. You're not sure how bold he'll be until you feel his arms wrapping around you, his chest pressing into your back. You could get used to this feeling and you find yourself wondering why it's taken this long to get to this point.

"I really hope what I'm about to say doesn't ruin my chances at third date." His voice is careful and warm at the shell of your ear.

"I don't like the sound of this," you groan, turning in his arms until he's looking down at you. His hands drop to your waist while you place a palm on his chest.

"I'm really sorry, but I have to go. Bea called, someone needs to go check on Margie Schulman. Sully's on a call out at Bingham's Point and it's Palmer's night off, so it falls to me. It's on the way to your place, so I thought you can ride along and I'll take you home after."

"Heavy is the crown," you goad and he smirks. "It's okay. What kind of person would I be if I begrudge you helping an elderly woman?"

"It's just a quick welfare check, ten minutes tops. Maybe we would have a nightcap at your place?"

"Who said I was going to invite you in?" Scrunching your nose, you poke him in the chest.

"You're brutal," he places a hand over his heart, before dropping a kiss to your hair line.

Sam drives up the winding coastal road as his headlights pierce through the thick curtain of night. You glance at the shotgun clamped between the front seats of the police cruiser, then to Sam who's driving with two hands on the wheel. He's dressed in street clothes, the casual jeans and flannel from his night with you, but wearing his standard issue jacket, the patch on his shoulder reading: _Little Tall Island Sheriff's Department._

He lifts his hips, adjusting the holster holding a handgun to his hip. You've seen him in uniform a thousand times, but this feels different. Somehow it feels more official now.

"I hope Margie's alright," you pick at the cuff if your jacket, staring out into the starless sky.

"You take care of her?" Sam inquires.

"Yeah, Mondays and Thursday, just for a couple hours. She's sweet, yet everytime I go over there she gives me another jar of rhubarb preserves that I'm pretty sure have been in her basement since the fifties. I'm scared to eat them."

"Maybe she'll hook me up, too," he grins. "I'm sure she's fine."

"Someone must be worried about her if you're going there at midnight."

Sam sighs, he's been through this a thousand times. "Davey Thompson is her paper boy. Davey said that when he went by her place this morning that she hadn't picked up yesterday's paper. So when he got home from school, he told Amy about it. She waited for Greg to get home to mention it. So about an hour ago Greg walked over there and said her TV was on loud enough to wake the dead, but she wouldn't answer the door."

"Which is how you get the call to check on her," you finish.

"You got it." He turns down East Carriage Road and houses start to pepper the roadside, more and more as you get closer to town.

"She keeps a spare key under the garden gnome by her side door, in case you need to get in."

Margie Schulman lives on a residential street in a monstrous turn-of-the-century home that looms tall between others of the same era. Her children tried to talk her into moving into The Cap House Home for the Aging, where you've worked for years. Her husband died fifteen prior, but she's refused to leave behind the home she shared with him for a lifetime. Everything on Little Tall is big, old and bursting with memories. Her street is dimly lit, sparse street lights barely illuminating the sidewalk. Sam pulls his car up in front of her house, shutting off his headlights but leaving the engine running.

"Let me guess, stay here, you'll be back?" you preempt.

"I'll be quick," he grabs a walkie from it's holster near the car radio and bounds out of the vehicle and up the steps to the Schulman residence.

You watch while he knocks at the door, then shines a flashlight through her bay window. He looks back to you, shrugging and walking around the side of the house where he slinks out of view. You pluck your cell phone from your pocket, thumbing through messages. You're a little drunk and starting to feel the pull of sleep.

 _Rap. Rap. Rap._

"Fuck!" you holler, jerking against the seat belt, only to see Michael Huskin's beady eyes staring through you window. "Goddamn it, Mike!"

He knocks on the window again, tapping his college ring on the glass. You roll down your window and a barrage of questions begin, "Everything okay over here? What's going on?" he asks, eyeing the interior of the car.

"I'm fine, just waiting."

"Greg Thompson said he came around earlier to check on Margie, but she didn't answer. So he called down to the station and Bea said she'd send someone out to check on her. That was almost two hours ago."

"Sounds like you already know what's going on." You restrain yourself.

"I'm the mayor. I make it my business to know what's going on."

"I know you are, Mike. I voted for you," you offer him a tight smile, since he's a man that enjoys being reminded of his stature in life. "Look, Sam's in there right now. She's in good hands."

"Well, now she is but it took him long enough to get out there. What if we had a real emergency?" Mike nods affirmatively. His arm is resting on your open window and it doesn't seem like he's planning on moving any time soon. "So ah, why are you here?"

"Oh, um, I had car trouble. The sheriff was on his way home and stopped."

"You're lucky. Carol, you know Carol who works down at grocery? She ran out of gas up over the east side and had to sleep in her car. The phones don't work over there."

"I know, what are the chances right?" You squirm in your seat. You don't enjoy lying, but if Mike has even a inkling of anything between you and Sam, the whole town will know by morning.

Sam can see the TV lit up through Margie's stale lace curtains, but little else. He knocks on her front door again, louder this time with his perfected 'cop knock'. When she doesn't answer he glances back, giving you a look and trots around the the side of the house.

He doesn't mind this part of the job, but the timing could have been better. An hour ago, he had visions of post dinner whiskey and a faint (but not unthinkable) possibility of seeing your breasts. Instead he's stumbling over shrubs while the crotch of his jeans pinches his balls.

He finds the key right where you said it would be and slides it into the rusted out lock. Stepping inside her kitchen he doesn't need to turn on the light to know Margie is dead. The putrid smell of decay hits him like a wall. He scrunches his nose, gagging as he mutters a flat "Fuck, where are you, old girl?"

The lights flicker and the television squawking in in the living room abruptly shuts off. In sudden silence Sam reaches for his gun, unsnapping the holster and resting his hand on the butt. "Hello? Little Tall Sheriff's Department. Is there anyone in the house?"

He inches toward the hallway that leads from the kitchen to the sitting room. Just as he reaches the doorway the decrepit Zenith tube radio on the counter crackles to life. Startled, Sam pulls his gun while Platters croon _heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time._

A chill runs up his spine, as music of another era combines with the stomach turning stench hanging thick in the air. He needs to clear the house, but he can't do it alone.

He flips on the overhead lights and there are Margie's slipper clad feet peeking out from behind the counter. Her blue veined legs are bare, extending from under the pale pink robe that's spilled out around her like a cotton blend halo. She's face down on cold tile. There's a pool of dried, dark blood on the floor but from his vantage point he can't see the point of origin.

"What the hell is going on?" Sam takes a deep breath, pushing back the childhood memories of trick-or-treating here when he was a kid; he's pretty sure his brother toilet papered her house at some point. Kneeling down, he's careful of where he places his hands to try and look under her body. He reaches into his jacket pulling out a kleenex, which will have to do in lieu of gloves. He lifts the edge of her robe with a delicate touch and sure as shit there's the hilt of a kitchen knife sticking out from under her stomach.

Her eyes are open, as is her mouth, twisted in a permanent expression of pain. Judging from the permeating smell she's been here been laid out for more than a couple days. Sitting back on his haunches Sam shakes his head and radio's into the station.

"Bea, you still there?"

After a moment of silence her voice comes back over the static. "Go ahead, kiddo."

"Put a call into Sully, tell him to head over to the Schulman place. See if you can find Palmer. If he's not blackout drunk get him over here too." He's purposely ambiguous, doesn't use the codes. Half the town has police scanners and he wants to attempt to control the situation.

"What's going on Sam?" she asks, her textbook smoker's voice rasping over speaker.

"Just get 'em here as fast as you can."

"Ten four."

He stands, wiping his hands on his thighs. This is a nightmare.

Sam leaves the light on and latches the door behind him. He wonders how Dean will take the news; his brother harbors surprising sentimentality when it comes to people that remember their father. They've both got more than a few memories of Margie, but this isn't the time or place for it. He's gotten good at it over the years, detaching himself enough times to know when to flip the switch.

Rounding the corner of the house he sees Mayor Huskin leaning on the side of his cruise. The night just keeps getting better.

"Mike," Sam calls with a wave of his hand, jogging toward the car.

"Sam," Mike stands up. You shoot Sam a tell-tale look, widening your eyes with a look of relief. "Everything alright with Margie?"

"We ah, we got a situation." Sam nods, bounding toward the driver's side door as Mike walks around to intercept him.

"What kinda situation?"

"I don't quite know yet," Sam pulls open the door and slips into the front seat.

"Now, just a minute. I have a right to know what's going on."

"You'll be the first to know, as soon as I do," Sam pulls the door shut and turns to you. "Roll up your window."

"He is tenacious," you laugh as Mike continues his rant outside Sam's window.

"Yes he is," Sam sighs and turns to you. _Christ,_ you're beautiful. There's still pink in your cheeks left over from the wine as you smile at him. He wishes what he's about to tell you wasn't going to wipe the happiness away. "I gotta stay here. Margie...I found her on the floor. She's gone."

"Oh," you sit back in your seat. Working at the home, you've witnessed more than a few deaths over the years, an unfortunate peril of the job. "That's terrible."

"Once Sully gets here I'll have him run you home." Sam restrains the urge to reach over and take your hand because Mike is now knocking on his window. Mrs. Clarity's porch lights turns on as she steps onto her stoop, followed by her husband. There's about to be an audience. "I am really sorry. I did not plan on the night ending like this."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," you offer a strained smile. "I'll let you make it up to me another night."


	2. Chapter 2

**Early Morning - October 8th**

Deputy Sully Rasmussen makes the drive from Bingham's Point to town in record time. He's not normally a man that does much of anything at a frenzied pace, instead eternally opting for slow and steady.

But tonight will turn out to be anything but run of the mill. He's not sure of the last time he lit up the blue and reds or heard the scream of the siren wailing in his ears, but as he accelerates over _ten, twenty, thirty_ miles over the speed limit he makes the judgement call; better to announce his presence and play it safe.

As soon as his cell phone rang, he knew that something was seriously wrong. Cellular service on the island is spotty on the best day, the radios are the only reliable form of communication. Everyone on the island has a short wave, so when Bea makes a phone call it means the sheriff wants radio silence.

This means shit has hit the fan.

They learned their lesson after Betty Delroy accused her husband Frank of abusing their five year old daughter. Frank, who was already in trouble for a drunk and disorderly, assumed no one would believe him and holed up in his hunting cabin instead of coming down to the station to get it shorted out. Child abuse is always a horrible thing, but in a small community like Little Tall people take it personally. Half the island was looking for Frank and when Bea sent a message over the shortwave to Sam about Frank's location, all hell broke loose.

There were a half dozen guys outside The Delroy Lodge when Sam and Sully showed up, milling around outside the front door with shotguns slung over their shoulders. Oli Belcher in his ripped flannel was leading the pack, happy as clam to rile up the other guys. After twenty minutes of arguing, Sam talked them down with the threat of jail time if they didn't back off.

People here like to take care of their own.

It was Bea's last sentence that didn't settle well with Sully. _Sheriff wants me to go find Palmer too. I'm getting a thermos full of coffee and heading over to Salty's._

It's common knowledge that on weekend nights Palmer drinks. He drinks half the bar and then goes home and sucks down Budweisers until he has to crawl on hands and knees to pay respects the porcelain gods. Sam wouldn't be asking for Palmer unless shit really hit the fan.

Sully pulls onto Mrs. Schulman's road, flipping off the siren but leaving the flashers on. The sheriff's cruiser is parked in front of the house and there's a small group of people gathering on the sidewalk. He recognizes the mayor and a few other neighbors, most clad in thick pajama. Sometimes police work feels like a spectator sport.

He pulls up behind Sam, exiting the car as Sam walks to meet him. There's someone in his squad car, a woman in the passenger seat, but his attention shifts to Mayor Huskin, who's following on at Sam's heals.

"Sully," Sam greets him with a grimace, "walk with me, yeah?"

"Sure thing," Sully follows Sam moving toward the driveway leading up to the Schulman home. He turns, putting up a hand to stop the Mayor from going any further. He's guessing Sam's already this discussion but it's part of his job to play interference "You gotta stay here Mike, this is police business."

"Look, you can't just start telling people what to do. Who do you think pays your salary?" Mike starts and Sam turns back, clearly losing his cool.

"If you take one more step I swear to God I will arrest for interfering with an investigation." Sam is calmest person Sully's ever met. He can diffuse almost any situation with so much as harsh word, but whatever's going on has him agitated.

"I'll remember this," Mike sputters but stays put.

Both officers stalk back up the driveway, once they're out of earshot Sam turns to Sully. "Margie's dead. She's got a knife in her gut and there's a lot of blood."

"Oh my...oh jeez," Sully breathes, the eternal optimist in him withering at the thought is sweet Mrs Schulman in pain.

"I don't know much more than that. From the smell I'd say it happened three or four days ago. It could been an accident, she might have tripped and fallen. Or it could be something else." Sam wipes a hand over his face. "We need to do a sweep of the house, make sure it's empty."

"Sure boss," Sully hasn't done a room to room sweep since the academy, but he's not about to let that stop him. This job has taught him one thing, as a general rule people rarely know what they're doing. You fake it until you make it. He wonders what makes Sam suspect foul play and recalls the person in his car. "Is there a suspect? Is that who's in the car?"

Sam reaches for the side door and pauses, "No. it's just Y/N. Once we're done with this can you run her home? I thought I was walking into a quick welfare check. I should have dropped her off first."

"Of course," Sully responds succinctly. He likes you, always has. You're one of the few people who doesn't try to take advantage of his good nature. "Is she alright? Did something happen?"

"She's fine. We were having dinner and the call came in." Sam's eyes tick away, just for a breath and he looks almost _sheepish_. Sully think it's the first time he's ever witnessed this side of Sam. Just a glimmer of weakness. "I'd appreciate it if you kept that between us."

"Of course," Sully nods agreeably. It wouldn't be the only secret of Sam's that he's kept over the years. It's part of why they work so well together, they have the kind of trust that's built over a lifetime.

When they were younger Sully wasn't exactly the kind of kid that fit in. He's always been overweight and highly sensitive. That combination did him a disservice once they were in school. Children are cruel and with Sully playground cruelty was like a blood sport, that is until Sam stepped in.

 _Sully was eleven, laying in the dirt under the tire swing, with blood running out of his nose and scraped knees. Oliver Belcher and Abel Jackobi were standing over him thoroughly amused a what a push over he was. Sully would never fight back and everyone knew it. That summer they'd practically lived for tormenting him and this was moment was the crown jewel in a month long campaign of torture._

" _Your choice asshole," Abel spit, kicking Sully in the stomach as he squirmed in pain, gasp for air. "You either eat it or we really beat the shitout of you."_

" _So gross dude," Oliver giggled uncontrollably, using his shoe to nudge the soiled baby diaper they fished out of the trash._

There are some nights when Sully's lying in bed that he can still feel the dread rising. That moment more twenty years ago sputtering to life in the form a panic attack.

 _It was the cold-sweat fear of an impossible choice._

" _Fat pig will probably eat anything. Oink oink!" Glaring, Oliver grabbed Sully by the hair and shoved his face closer to the diaper, the rancid smell making him gag. "Make a choice, piggy. Eat shit or take the punishment."_

" _Please," Sully begged, tears falling from his eyes, mixing with the blood and the dirt smeared on his face, "please don't make me."_

" _Shove his fucking face in it!" Abel cheered, beaming with anticipation. "Fucking do it dude!"_

 _Sully closed his eyes, sucking in a breath and preparing for what was to come...but it didn't._

" _Let him go."_

 _The voice was familiar but he couldn't place it until Oliver let go of his hair and Sully dared to open his eyes. There was Sam, smaller than every other kid in their class, standing firm with a pen knife in his hand, nostrils flaring._

 _Sam showed no fear. It's the one thing Sully remembers most, what bravery looked like. He's seem Sam demonstrate it plenty of times in subsequent years, but that first time it was like Sam was knight of the round table, wielding a sword with no possibility of defeat._

" _What the hell do you think you're doing, Winchester?" Oliver's focused shifted from Sully to Sam, taking a step toward him._

" _I wouldn't," Sam warned. "I know how to fight, my dad taught me. I don't wanna hurt you, but I will if I have to."_

 _Had Sam failed to bring up his dad, the situation might have escalated, but invoking the spirit of John Winchester was like summoning forth the wrath of God himself. John had a reputation; to say it preceded him was putting it lightly._

" _Screw him," Abel shook his head, "I don't even wanna spend my time on these two panty wastes."_

 _Oliver backed away begrudgingly, for all he knows Sam just as crazy as his dad. He's heard the stories and as much as he wants to rub Sully's face in baby shit, he values his safety more. "We'll be back for both of you!" he yells, grabbing Abel's arm as they scurried away._

 _Sully was still lying in the dirt when Sam knelt beside, placing small hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?'_

" _You shouldn't have done that," Sully gulped, wiping his face and sitting up. "They'll come after you now."_

" _Let them," Sam replied matter of factly. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a wadded up kleenex. "It's not used, don't worry."_

 _Sully watched Sam in wonderment. wiping blood from his nose and chin. Up until that point he'd spent his life in fear, but there was something about the way Sam spoke, a matter of fact finality to the whole thing. "Thanks...I really owe you."_

" _No big deal," Sam shrugged, "I'll make sure they leave you alone."_

" _Are you gonna get your brother to do something? Because-"_

" _I don't need Dean to fight my battles. I know what I'm doing."_

Sam and Sully clear the house basement to attic and find nothing more than a few rats and hundred of copies of Reader's Digest collecting dust in her dining room. It isn't until they're back in the hallway just outside the kitchen that Sam sees it. There's an old family photo hanging on the wall, taken back in the 1930s. He's guessing the small girl in the photo is Margie herself and the man standing behind her is her father. But it's not the picture itself that's remarkable, but it's the words written in thick black ink across the glass reading: _Give me what I want and I'll go away._

"Sully, check this out." Sam shines his light on the words.

"You think it's got something to do with Margie?" The deputy asks, shifting from one foot to the another.

"I don't know, but it's weird right?"

"I'd say so," Sully agrees, looking to the body that's staring at him from the kitchen. "Can we cover her up, Sam?"

Sam looks where the woman is laying on the floor, mouth agape like fish on land. "I've got a tarp in the trunk we can use. You call Bea, have her get in touch with the State post in Machias. We need a crime scene tech."

"You got it, boss," Sully moved to the door. "You want me to take Y/N home now?"

"Yeah, let me say goodnight first."

 **Morning, October 8th**

It's Sam's knock on your front door that wakes from a deep sleep. You open your eyes one at a time, wiping drool from the corner of your mouth and looking around, completely disoriented. The events of the night before flood back and you sit up wondering if it had all been a dream.

The knocking grows louder as you glance at the clock reading just past seven. You look frantically for your robe, but fail to find it. So you head to the front door in a pair of running shorts and a tattered tank top.

You're greeted by the glacial morning air, and the sight of Sam standing tall with his sheriff's hat tucked under his arm. Equal parts thrilled at the his presence and horrified that he's seeing you in your current state you stare at him silently.

"Sorry, did I wake you up? Shit." He takes a step back, his eyes giving you quick once over.

"What? No, no it's fine. I needed to get up anyway." This is a lie. You stay in bed as late as you can on Saturdays, sometimes until well past noon.

"I just wanted to check on you, I can just call you later." He looks tired and he changed at some point during the night, now in full uniform.

"Seriously, I'm up. You wanna come in?" You stand to the side, offering him entrance. Sam looks like he's about to say something, but thinks better of it and strides into your living room. You scamper over to your coffee table, pushing a pair of panties underneath a clean towel. You really need to fold your laundry. "You want coffee?"

"No," he holds up his hand, "I've been working all night. I need to go home and try to get at least a few hours of sleep."

"Oh, right. My god, you've been at Mrs Schuler's." You're stumbling over yours words, trying to get your brain to stop it's running commentary on how handsome he looks, even when he's completely exhausted. "I'm sorry, can you give me two minutes? I'll be right back."

You locked yourself in the bathroom, calming wild hair and brushing your teeth. You run a washcloth over your face and stand a little taller, feeling a bit more like a functioning human. When you return to the living he's seated on your couch, long legs bent at the knees. He stands as soon as he sees you. "I'm not gonna take up your time, but I just wanted to tell you I really enjoyed last night. I mean before everything happened, of course."

"Me too," you smile, your heart swelling at the thought of him coming all the way here just to tell you this.

"Look, I probably shouldn't be saying this. I don't know what the protocol is here. I think I'm supposed to wait two days and call you… I'm not good at this."

"You're doing pretty well so far," you smile, creeping closer.

Sam's takes a deep breath and just says it, "I've liked you since we were kids. I like you even better now that we're both older. I don't want to wait anymore, it's already been too long."

"Too long for what?" He stares at you for a moment and then springs forward, his hands sliding around your waist and he's kissing you. It's soft at first, not hesitant, just testing to see how you respond. When you kiss him back, he slides his tongue past your lips, one hand knotting in your hair. He tastes like coffee and Altoids, you wonder if he'll always taste like this and hope you get the chance to find out. Your hands slide up his chest, moaning softly into his mouth.

As if on cue, he pulls away, leaving you with eyes closed and mouth hanging open. He watches your wet, pink lips as you come to your senses, tongue darting out as your gain composure. "I just, I wanted to kiss you." He explains matter of factly.

"Well," your cheeks hollow, blowing out a breath. "I'm glad you did...I liked it."

"Good," Sam finds himself suddenly nervous and the fact that doesn't escape you. Confident, 'I-can-handle-any-situation' Sam Winchester is unsure of him...because of you. He's been planning out this moment in his head all night, working up the courage to just fucking do it. Now that he's done what he came to he's not sure of what's next. "I um, I'm gonna go home now. And I'm gonna call you tonight, if that's okay with you?"

"Yeah," you nod, still a bit breathless, "I'd like that. Oh, and if you talk to Sully, tell him thanks for the ride."

"I will." He picks up his hat from the coffee table and bows awkwardly in your direction. "Have good morning."

And with that, he's gone.

 **October 12**

Sam changes at the station, carefully folding his uniform and placing it in his rusting locker. There's a certain catharsis in donning street clothes, not that anyone else makes the distinction. He's always the sheriff whether he's on the clock or not, but it helps his separate the work from his admittedly meager personal life. He says goodnight to Bea and walks the five blocks from the sheriff's office to The Salty Dog.

Dean's already halfway through a basket of chips and his second beer when Sam walks in.

"You look like shit," Dean offers, popping a chip into his mouth.

"Good to see you too," Sam shakes his head good naturedly. "I've been working late every night, so yeah. I feel like shit."

"Oh yeah, the Margie thing." Dean pauses for a moment, pouring half his beer into the empty water glass in front of his brother "Just to tide you over."

"Thanks," Sam's take a sip and damn if Dean's warm beer doesn't hit the spot.

"Margie Schulman, I liked her. Hey, didn't mom used to take us over there when we were were kids?" Most of Dean's childhood memories are blur, Sam, while the younger of the two is the keeper of their collective consciousness.

"Yeah," Sam confirms. "They were on the church fundraising committee. We went every Thursday night my fourth grade year. I hated it because you were old enough to go play with Kyle Henderson, but I had to stay there and drink her sour lemonade."

"Strawberry rhubarb," Dean snaps his finger and points at Sam, "I remember now, she made the best damn rhubarb pie I ever had."

"She'd send us home with a slice for each of us and you'd eat mine in the car."

"She was a sweet lady." Dean flags down their waitress, they order burgers and beer. "You got any idea what happened to her? Bobby said he heard something about her falling on her own knife?"

"We had techs in from the mainland, but it'll be weeks before we hear anything back." Sam explains, everything takes longer when you're on the island.

"What do you think happened?" inquiring, Dean squeezes a pool of ketchup on his plate.

"I don't know what I think, but when I was in that house… Dean, I swear to you something wasn't right."

"You think someone killed her?" Dean rolls his eyes, " _Who in the hell_ would want to kill some old lady?"

"I told you, I don't know. Look, if it's all the same to you can we talk about something else? I've been knee deep in it for three days now."

"Fair enough," Dean tips his head in concession.

"How's Sophie?" Sam knows how to move the conversation.

At the mere mention of her name a smile spreads wide across Dean's face, he loves his daughter. "She's really great. She's going to that kindergarten in Machias, takes the seabus every morning like it's nothing. She's growing up, Sam. I'm going to be dropped her off at college before I know it."

"She's five Dean, I think you've got a couple good years left."

"Someday you're gonna have a kid and you'll get it, time goes fucking fast," Dean tips his bottle toward Sam for added effect and reaches into his pocket. "That reminds me, I've got something for you."

Sam watches as Dean flattens out a crumpled piece of notebook paper in front of him. It's clearly a picture drawn by his niece, three stick figures each labeled appropriately. Stick figure Sam is about twice as tall as stick figure Dean, who's dwarfed in comparison. The squiggly little girl is between them holding both their hands, on what appears to be Dean's boat. Sam smiles, looking up to Dean who couldn't be more proud. "This is for me?"

"She said your refrigerator door was too empty," Dean shrugs. "So you better hang it up before she comes over."

"Of course," Sam looks it over again, before carefully folding it and slipping in into his coat pocket.

Dean is an unlikely candidate for a single dad, but it's the way life worked out. Sophie's mother, Allison, grew up with them both, she and Dean had been on and off since high school. When Sophie was three months old Allison took a bottle of sleeping pills in the bathtub. There's a lot to that story, a lot no one talks about.

They eat and drink, Dean orders a round of shots that Sam complains about but tips back nonetheless and as the night wears on the conversations devolves.

"I mean I knew it, _I knew_ from the jump that there was something off about her. But you shoulda seen her Sammy, her breasts were," Dean closes his eyes dramatically as if he's remembering the moment in vivid detail, "Let's just say she was top shelf."

"I get the picture," Sam sips his beer, leaning back in the booth. "Is there a point to this story or are you just oversharing?"

"I'm getting there," Dean cocks an eyebrow and sets down his glass, he needs full range of motion to tell it right. "So we go back to her place, things get hot and heavy pretty quick. I'm telling you, I've never in my life had a blow job like this. This girl could suck cock like it's her religion, I'm talking _suck a golf ball through a garden hose_ good."

"Oh, God!" Sam cringes, then chuckles in a combination amusement and horror.

"So one thing leads to another and we end up in her bedroom and there are stuffed animals everywhere. Hundreds of them on shelves, on the floor and all over the freaking bed. It's weird but whatever, I can deal with a little crazy. I lay down, she climbs on my dick and we starting fucking."

"Dean, I really don't need all the gory details-"

"Let me finish princess, I need to set the scene. I'm just laying there watching her tits bounce, she's doing all the work and I'm thinking this can't get much better right? Until she starts talking. At first I think she's talking to me, which is cool. I like dirty talk as much as the next guy, but the shit she's saying doesn't make any sense. _You stop that. I told you to close your eyes."_

"Oh no," Sam's mouth falls open, "She wasn't….I mean..."

"Oh yes, she was. She's talking to Goddamn fucking stuffed animals. She reaches over, still fucking me mind you, and turns around this plush koala around. Oh my God dude, she's actually scolding it, _you know better Mr. Peepers, you shouldn't be watching._ "

"What did you do?" Sam asks leaning forward, totally engrossed with both his forearms on the table.

"I flipped her over, finished the job and got the hell outta there." Dean shrugs before downing his drink.

"You are unbelievable."

"What?" Dean balks, indignant. "I made sure she came, I'm a gentleman."

"Yes you are." Sam laughs, really laughs for the first time in a long time. This is what he needed, and there's no one else that puts him ease the way the brother does.

"So enough about me," Dean reaches over taking several fries from Sam's plate. "What's this I hear about you and Y/N?"

"Oh God," Sam groans, pounding the table goodnaturedly. "I knew it was coming."

"Hey," Dean throws his hands up. "Ron told me that Mike Huskin said she was with you when you showed up at Margie's the other night. She waited in the car four a couple hours before Sully finally took her home. He said she had car trouble and you just happened to pick her up."

"And…" Sam swirls his hand waiting for the rest of the story, because there's a shit eating grin on his brother's face.

"And, as you know, I've been trying to sell the pick up for a year now. I thought I'd see what happened to her car, maybe she'd be in the market to buy the truck. I asked Calvin Griggs down at Auto Stop if he knew anything and he said she never called him, never brought it in. Then I got to thinking about how shifty you were that night. I asked if you wanted to get a couple beers and you had like twenty excuses why you had to stay home. Pair that with the fact you've had a hard on for her since high school. I put two and two together." Dean takes a bow with a roll of his hand.

"Shit," Sam chuckles.

Dean leans in, raising an eyebrow. "You fucked her yet?"

"Jesus Dean, not everyone talks about every time they...hook up with someone."

"True, but she's not a hook up and I'm your brother. So spill." Dean prods.

"No, we haven't... _fucked_ yet." Sam's mouth twists and he takes a drink just to break the awkwardness.

"Ahh, you will," Dean smiles confidently, sitting back. "I'm just glad you finally worked up the balls to ask her out. You were too chicken shit back in the day. Remember you finally decided you were gonna call her, but she'd already started dating that fuckwad, what was he his name?"

"Kyle Stauler." Sam confirms, he hasn't thought about him in a long time. "I was seventeen, she made me nervous."

"That's right, King of the douches: Kyle Stauler. Well, she liked you even back then, I remember. I could never figure out why you were so gun shy about it. If you'd pulled the trigger sooner you probably coulda been the one who popped her cherry."

Sam dismisses his comment. "I didn't feel as confident as you did apparently."

"She laughs at every joke you ever told and you aren't that funny." Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Are you trying to encourage or insult me?"

"Little of both," Dean ticks his head to the side.


	3. Chapter 3

**October 17th**

"I've been telling people for years that it's only a matter of time before the rest of the world catches up to us." Deputy Palmer Anderson rocks back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers.

"I think that's a little alarmist," Sully looks up from his paperwork.

"He's not wrong," Sam chimes in, balancing two cups of coffee before setting one on Palmer's desk, then spins an empty chair to straddle it. Sam doesn't like his office; he'd rather be out here with the guys. Besides, while it's a rare day when they're all here together, last month's paperwork was piling up so it's their monthly 'push to control the backlog.' "The island can't stay like this forever. We've been Mayberry for too long."

"Do you think there's actually more crime these days or people are just more likely to report it?" Sully ponders, rolling his chair toward the other two men.

"If we knew what went on behind closed doors, we'd have to arrest half the town," Palmer shrugs while smoothing his mustache. "Nowadays, people feel the need to share everything."

"That's a good thing though, right?" Sully asks.

"If nothing else it's job security," Sam smiles, sipping piping hot coffee.

"I heard a story about a guy in San Francisco," Palmer began, "a serial killer who placed a wanted ad in the newspaper looking for someone to kill, and people actually responded."

"No…" Sam balks.

"I swear to you," Palmer assures him. "This lady, who's batshit crazy because she didn't get enough love her mother or some shit, went to his house and he killed her and ate her."

Sully and Sam groan in tandem.

"That's the kind of world we're living in." Palmer tips his head to the side and picks up his mug.

"Okay," Sam concedes, "but to be fair, in comparison things are pretty tame here. Sure there's been more drunk, disorderlies and domestics, but winter is coming. It happens every year."

"We haven't had a murder on the island since 1918. Ol' Margie's an omen of things to come, you mark my words. There's a shit storm brewing on the horizon! You just can't see it yet." Palmer nods.

"We don't even know what happened." Sully interjects, unsettled at the idea of her death being a homicide; it's a possibility he doesn't want to face.

"You don't need to know _,_ Sull, you _feel_ it." Palmer looks to Sam, "The Sheriff feels it, don't cha?"

"Well, I…" Sam trails off, trying to find the right words. But he knows there's no need to sugar coat things with these two. "I can tell you something wasn't right in that house."

"See," Palmer cocks his chin toward Sully. "You gotta learn to trust your instincts; they'll save your life."

"My instincts are fine. I just don't go around assuming the worst. I prefer to wait until all the facts are in." Sully huffs.

"Not everything comes wrapped with a nice little bow. You'd do yourself a favor to remember that."

"Lay off him," Sam waves his hand at Palmer. "Hey, what ended up happening over at the Curtsmans?"

Palmer rolls his eyes. "Jeanie called in again, said Jim was beating her. By the time I got there they'd made up and she denied the whole thing."

"You talk to her without Jim?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

"Am I new?" He asks, incredulous. "Course I talked to her, she's got a shiner too, he popped her good, but she won't turn him in. So what could I do?"

"Maybe I'll head over there tomorrow while Jim's at work." Sam offers.

"You do that Sam. I've got better things to do than play therapist to a housewife who won't help herself."

"Jesus Palmer, you sound like a-" _Buzz. Buzz_. Sam's phone vibrates in his pocket, he checks the screen and gets up, "I gotta take this." He waits until his office doors clicks closed before answering. "Hey you."

"Hi Sam," you greet him, sounding out of breath.

He loves the way you say his name; it makes his pulse speed up. He's not sure he'll ever get used to it. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Larry Grandby's truck slid off the road out on Canton, couple of us stopped to give him a push. He's good."

"Listen to you, muscles." He teases and you laugh. _God,_ Dean was right, you do laugh at all his awful jokes.

"I'm not sure if I like being called that." You laugh as he hears the ding of the open car door and the click as it shuts. "I don't really have a good reason for calling. I'm just sitting her on the side of the road. I just haven't talk to you in a couple days."

"I'm glad you did," Sam peaks out the door at Palmer and Sully who are still engaged in conversation. "We still on for dinner Saturday?"

"Yes," you confirm, pausing before adding, "I miss you. Is that weird to say?"

Sam smiles, relieved there's no one around to see what a fool he must look like. "No, I miss you too."

 **October 19th**

"You're not doing it right," Maude Chapman slaps at your arm and you let go of the the bedspread. You're a nurse, not a housekeeper; but most of the residents don't see the distinction.

You take a deep breath, stepping back to allow her to take over, "why don't you show me how you want it."

"Here," her hands are all knuckles, knotty fingers that somehow still move with expert precision as she folds the edge the way she prefers and tucks it under the mattress. "You have to keep the folds tight."

"Got it," you nod in confirmation and complete the remaining corners following her instruction.

"You can take the tray too, I'm done."

"Perfect," you look at her leftover hot roast beef sandwich, now room temperature as a film forms over the gravy. You came up to her room to double check her medication and found yourself in a never ending loop of chores and tasks. "I think Beth is coming later to clean, so she'll get the rest of it for you, kay?"

"Beth has no eye for detail. There's been a cobweb in the bathroom since I moved in."

"I'll talk to her, make sure she gives your room a good once over."

"If you think it will help," she dismisses you by sitting her arm chair facing the window and picking up her book.

"See you tomorrow." You close the door carefully and tiptoe past the open door to Mr. Flannery's room. You can see him through the open door, napping on his bed as he snores loud enough to wake the dead.

Memory Lane Manor is the only elderly care facility on the island. It looms large and imposing on the west side of the island. The house was originally built by Jessup P Flannery in 1883, one of the first construction projects on Little Tall. It remained a private residence for nearly a hundred years before being sold by the Flannery children to Joe Burch, who converted it into a old folks home. Each of the twenty one rooms are home to hosts of colorful and cantankerous residents.

You've worked here for almost five years with no desire to leave. If you want to live on the island you've got two options; Memory Lane or Dr. Bauer's Family Practice where Carole Till has been the only in-office nurse for the better part of twenty years.

It's not that you mind the home; you like most of the residents and enjoy afternoons of checking blood pressures and listening to vintage tales from yesteryear. You've always been a romantic when it comes to nostalgia, so your chosen occupation is a good fit.

Over the years you've toyed with the idea of moving on. You went to school on the mainland at the University of Southern Maine and there were days when you missed Portland and all the amenities it has to offer. Maybe someday you'll grow a pair and move to the 'big city.' But not anytime soon. Your life is here, not to mention this thing with Sam is still in its infancy. You'll always be an island girl. It's in your bones.

You drop off Maude's tray at the kitchen and head to the small suite of offices on the first floor, your tennis shoes squeaking as rubbing meets hardwood.

"Is she in a mood today?" Kelly looks up from her computer.

"When is she not in a mood," you grin, setting your chart down and sinking into your desk chair. "She had me make her bed. If she had things her way I'd be her maid, personal assistant and spend my day answering her every beck and call."

"Claudia worked overnight all last week. She said Maude had her making tapioca pudding at three in the morning." Kelly gets up from her desk and walks over to yours, sitting on the edge.

"Claudia needs to learn to say no. If she does it, then the expectation is the rest of us will too." Sighing, you tap the power button on your laptop.

"Have you heard anything else about, you know…" Kelly lowers her voice despite the fact that you're the only two people in the room.

"Are you talking about Mrs Schulman or Debbie?" You clarify.

"I'll take the dish on either, but I was talking about Debbie. My mom said she had a full meltdown in the middle of the grocery. Screaming at Scott about screwing Karly Smith while she was in Vermont visiting her sister. She almost gave him a concussion with jar of pickles."

"Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. What I don't get is how Debbie can even get upset in the first place. She's slept with half the town, most of them after she got married."

"She's always been a wild card. Remember when we were in high school? The shit that came out of her mouth. You never knew what was coming." Kelly laughs.

"I invited her over for dinner out senior year and sat at the table terrified of her saying something vulgar in front my parents. I think it's all about the shock factor with her. Hell, I don't care who or how many people she sleeps with as long as it's not me that's taking a can of the green beans to the skull." You snicker as you thumb through your handwritten notes. It's going to be a long evening of data entry.

"What about the Schulman thing? I heard it was just an accident, she fell in kitchen."

"That's what I heard too." You breeze past the topic.

"Come on, you were with the sheriff! He didn't say anything else?" Kelly pushes.

"No, not really."

"Speaking of the sheriff, Kathy over at Cooper's said he was in there a couple weeks ago asking about wine pairings. She thinks he's back with Maeve."

You try to contain you reaction, forcing a casual shrug as you flip through your notes. "Who knows."

"It's a shame," Kelly forges on, "Maeve's sweet, don't get me wrong, but there's no light on in the attic. I could never figure out what he was doing with her."

"I'm sure there's more to her than meets the eye." You try to play devil's advocate, despite how uncomfortable the conservation makes you. If you're honest, you feel the same way. Maeve and Sam were always a mystery to you and now the thought of them together makes your stomach tight. You don't begrudge him a past, you both have one. But you'd prefer to leave it where is belongs.

"You know what your problem is?" Kelly asks.

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway." You laugh, giving her your full attention.

"You're too goddamn nice." She kicks your chair.

"Trust me, I'm not," you shake your head. "I just don't want anyone else talking about me so I try to extend the same courtesy."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about." Kelly rolls her eyes and gets up. "You want to grab dinner later?"

"As long as we can drink too." You feel the sudden need for something to take the edge off.

"Girl," Kelly spins in her chair, "I've got you covered."

 **October 20th**

Once a month Ellen Harvelle and the children of Wee Folks Daycare make their pilgrimage to Memory Lane. It's not the younger children, just the school age kids that have nowhere to go after school lets out and still require supervision. The program is your brainchild, a bringing-together of young and old that seems to breathe life into the elderly residents.

You wait at the door as Ellen ushers six children from her van toward the steps of the house. Included in today's merry band of little ones is Robbie Huskin, the mayor's son, and Sophie Winchester, whose blonde pigtails are swirling around her head.

You pair the children off one-by-one with the folks who choose to be part of the program. Some of them playing games, others reading story books about valiant knights and damsels in distress. You walk the perimeter of the social room, letting each pair interact in their own way. They've been coming here for almost a year and each have an established relationship that's wholly unique.

Just as the afternoon is coming to a close, Ellen sneaks up behind you. "I hate to ask, but you think you can do me a favor?"

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this," you joke.

"Can you keep Sophie for a little while? I'm going to drop them off on my way back to my place but Dean's house is on this side of the island. He just called and he's docking right now but he won't be up here until close to seven which means I have to make the rounds and come all the way back over here…"

"He's gonna pick her up?" You confirm. It's not the first time, every once in awhile you play babysitter for Sophie. She's a sweet kid and now as you explore a relationship with Sam there's a new level of interest. "I don't mind."

"You're a lifesaver." Ellen smiles.

Sophie sits at your desk with a wide array of crayons as she colors in a picture of Beauty and the Beast. You set a tray of this evening's dinner consisting of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in front her, hiding your amusement as she scrunches her nose.

"What is it?" She asks, poking the plate with her finger.

"It tastes better than it looks, just try a bite for me." You encourage her.

Sophie puts her coloring book aside and looks skeptically from you to Kelly, who's watching from her desk. Forking a bite of meatloaf, she closes her eyes and sticks into her mouth like she's taking medicine. After a minute she begins to chew, her expression turning from revulsion to surprise.

"Not bad huh?" You confirm.

"It's good," she doesn't look up from her plate.

"Sorry you're stuck here kiddo, your dad should be here soon."

"I like it here," Sophie mumbles through a mouth full of food, "my dad says I'm going to be seeing you all the time now."

You nearly choke on your own spit and Kelly rotates in her chair like a hound dog smelling blood.

"Oh yeah?" You sputter, unsure of where this is going.

"He says you're a real ten." She repeats what she heard matter of factly as Kelly stifles a laugh, snorting into her hand. "That's a good thing right?"

" _Oh yeah,_ " Kelly responds, grinning like the Cheshire cat, "it's good. Your dad say anything else?"

You clear your throat, throwing your co-worker a glare. "Why don't we talk about something else. How is school going?"

You change the subject as the heat rises in your cheeks, painfully aware of Kelly watching you like a hawk. You're never going to hear the end of this.

It's almost eight by the time you hear Dean's truck pull up. You gather Sophie's things and take her by the hand as you walk her down the steps.

"Sorry," he raises his hands walking to you. "I had a flat tire, it's always something."

"It's okay," you offer.

"Hey squirt" Dean hugs his daughter as she wraps herself around his leg. "You ready?"

"Yes," she sighs dramatically. "I'm exhausted."

"Me too. Go get in the truck and I'll be there in a second." She listens, running off to the car with a backpack over her shoulder. Dean looks at you with an exasperated expression, "I'm really sorry."

"And I told you, it's fine. She's entertains herself for the most part. She's pretty self sufficient."

"She is, isn't she," Dean looks back at the truck like a proud papa bear.

"She ate dinner and had seconds too, so she shouldn't be hungry."

"Thanks, I owe you. I'll buy you a drink once my brother gets his shit together and you two aren't hiding in the shadows."

You bite your lip, trying not to smile. The thought of Sam makes you feel ridiculously giddy.

"No repayment needed," you wave him off.

"I don't like to be in debt to anyone, sweetheart. Not even you." He reaches out and squeezes your arm before jogging back to his waiting daughter.


	4. Chapter 4

It's your fourth date; dinner wasn't anything fancy, just homemade pizza and craft beer. You almost forget how funny Sam is or maybe it's just schoolgirl giddiness making you giggle at everything he says, but the details don't certain you. As the night wears on, you find yourself nestled into his side with a full belly in front of a fireplace.

You're both seated on the floor, leaning back against his ratty couch that was new back when his parents first moved to the island. There's a creeping intimacy as his long legs sprawl out, his bare feet outstretched toward the fire. Sam's talking but all you can focus on is his hand resting on your knee; well, just above your knee. He's inching into thigh territory.

His face is animated as he talks about some woman Dean's met...or maybe he's talking about Sully. You're only concern is watching the wrinkles about his eyes bunch up as he smiles and his free waving through the air, becoming increasingly animated.

"Can you believe that?" He finishes, shaking his head in apparent disbelief.

"No," you nod in an attempt to cover your ass. "Can't believe it."

"He's out of control sometimes but he always has my back." You can see the switch in his brain when his focus tapers to you. Like a hawk spotting a field mouse, his expression narrows as the hand on your leg slides a little higher, his whole body shifting closer. "I'm talking too much."

"I like listening to you."

"I guess I've got a lot of pent-up shit agitating in here." He motions toward his temple and then brings the same hand to your face, sweeping a lock of hair across your cheek before tucking it behind your ear. Turning your hand into his palm, you look to him and he's staring right back. His eyes lock onto yours.

Maybe it's the wine or maybe it's the almost two decades of restrained desire, but you're feeling bold.

"If I sleep with you on our fourth date does that make me easy?" The questions rolls off your tongue like the most casual question in the world.

He pulls back with a grimace and replies deadpan. "Who said I want to sleep with you?"

Your heart jumps into your throat in the time it takes for a wide smile to spread across his face.

"Asshole," you playfully slap his shoulder as he chuckles, pleased with himself.

"I want whatever you want." Sam tips his head, setting down his beer. "We can take things slow. I don't mind."

"I want you to touch me," you whisper, interrupting his feeble search for excuses not to do what you both want. Your hand lazily drifts under his shirt to skim over the warm, bare skin of his abdomen, grinning as his stomach jumps under your touch. "I've been waiting a long time for you to make your move, ever since we were at that fair in seventh grade and you-"

He kisses you, quite possibly just to shut you up, but you don't mind.

His hand cups the side of your head, long fingers gentle as he hold you still for the sweet forage of his tongue in your mouth; dipping, swirling, tasting. Heat spreads fast in your belly, stoked hot by the slow rhythmic stroke of his tongue that does a wonderfully accurate job of mimicking another penetration.

You pull apart just as abruptly as you come together. Sam's panting, his face painfully serious, lips rosy and eyes locked on you. The silence of the moment is so loud you swear you can hear the blood rushing through your veins.

"We should go upstairs, to my bed." He stands before you have a chance to protest, pulling you with him.

"I don't mind it right here," standing on your toes you kiss him again, knees feeling weak when his arms wrap around your torso. One hand ghosts over your lower back as he cups your bottom, squeezing a cheek with a thrillingly large hand.

"I'm not making love to you on my couch," Sam chuckles against your lips. "It still smells like the dog we had when I was a kid."

"Jackson?" You question as his mouth travel down your jaw. He's shuffling toward the stairs, hands and mouths everywhere as you stumble.

"Yeah, Jackson" he laughs into your mouth, " come on." He takes your hand, leading you up the stairs.

He flips on the light in this bedroom and then you're ripping each other's clothes off with a savgery that allows no consideration for things like seams or buttons. One of your socks ends up in the corner behind an arm chair, perhaps never to be seen again. It's a mad race to get the other naked first.

Sam's lips don't leave yours, somewhat hampering your removal of his clothing. Your kisses are greedier each time your mouths meet. Sam removes your bra with nibble fingers, tossing it undermousliy into the air where is lands perched on the corner of his television. It seems like a lifetime, but then his large, perfect hands are covering your breasts, kneading and stroking and plucking already erect nipples. The heat in your belly turns to wetness between your legs as you breath goes choppy.

His plaid shirt is lost in the first wave, followed by the difficult removal of his undershirt. He's impossibly tall and and in no frame of mind to help you disrobe him while he's in the midst of his own mission. When he's finally undressed, you decide that he deserves more of your attention, pushing him over so that he lands on his back across the bed. Climbing over him, you straddle his hips and take your time running fingers over the hard muscles of his chest, then down his abs. You lean forward, running the flat of your tongue over one of his small nipples before venturing upward to his broad shoulders, nipping at the ball of the left one.

You stop and slide off him. Sam props himself up on his elbows to watch you tug your jeans down, panties going right along with them. He doesn't look away, licking his lips as you crawl back onto the bed and reach for his zipper.

"You're so beautiful," he confesses, his voice low.

"So are you." You fingers work his zipper down and over the bulge, all while nibbling across the taught skin of his belly.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks hesitantly.

"Shut up Sam," you quip, reaching past the zipper to cup him as you lunge forward, kissing him hard on the mouth.

Sam does as he's told, lifting his hips to help you shimmy denim down his long legs.

He is, just as you suspected, big all over. Standing at the edge of the bed, you yank his jeans off both feet, admiring his cock that's bobbing straight up between his spread legs. His cheeks are flushed with arousal as he watches you, making no attempt to take control his blatant lust. Starting at his ankles, you scrap your nails along the hair on his legs, grinning as his shivers. Reaching his erection you skip to his sides, climbing back onto the bed with him.

"You have been drinking," he offers, part of him waiting for this to end. He's wanted this for so long; it seems too good to be true.

Climbing on him, you let your breasts brush every part of his long body. Reaching his head, you lean down and suck his lower lip into your mouth.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" You murmur against his lips. Feeling his cock brush against your lower back makes you smile. "I want you to fuck me when I'm sober, too. Stop thinking so much."

That does the trick, you feel him relax, his kisses more insistent.

To show him just how serious you are about wanting him, you scoot back down and suck him into your mouth without so much as a stroke. Sam yelps in pleasure, his back arching off the bed. You don't stop there. His hoarse moans only fuel your desire as you pump the base his cock with your fingers into a hot and waiting mouth. Summoning every ounce of skill, you use your tongue to circle and flick the sensitive head, giving in occasionally to his rasping demands for a long, hard suck that have Sam twisting the bed sheets in his fist as he fights off his own climax.

You're utterly enchanted. Practically in love.

Sam is super responsive and you love his reaction everytime you drag the flat of your tongue over the flushed head of his cock. Every lick and suck has him writhing and twisting and all because of your efforts. Jesus, it's an unbelievable rush. An hour ago you were lost in one of his stories and now he's at your mercy. It's an incredible aphrodisiac. He's barely touched you and you're already wet and throbbing and desperate to be filled.

Right on cue Sam lunges, fisting a hand in your hair and pulling you into a kiss that draws a moan from you chest. Before you have the chance to rally your senses and regain control, you're under him. Caged by the same strong, impressive body that you were just appreciating.

He kisses you senseless, hardly giving you time to take a breath before claiming your mouth again. When he sure that you aren't going to try and wrestle back control he slides to the side, hooking your nearest leg over his knee to keep you spread and exposed. Then his long, clever fingers start exploring your slick, swollen folds. Helpless to stop yourself, you undulate under his hand, fingernails digging into his shoulders as you beg for one those fingers to fill you.

Sam does better.

He pushes two fingers inside you. Now it's your turn to arch your back, swamped by a shockingly strong burst of pleasure that draws a long, wailing mew from you. It doesn't take long for you to teeter on the edge of your climax. Just when you think you can't take anymore, Sam slides down and settle between your thighs. The combination of the sight of his head down there and his mouth sucking your clit is more than enough. You come with his name on your lips as he laps up everything you've got to give.

He doesn't even give you a chance to recover before he's crawling back up your damp, panting body. He clamps his lips around a nipple and sucks so hard you scream. You're body reacting as if it hasn't just exploded, streaks of pleasure and pain shoot from your breast to your pussy. Using his teeth to tug, and tongue to swirl, he fans a flame that hasn't yet had the chance to die out. You drag him back up to you, kissing him like your life depends it, teeth clicking together.

Instead of being hard to bring to climax, you find yourself constantly hovering on the brink, as if the last peak hadn't reached it final plateau. Sam's heavy on top of you and you love it, raising you legs and wrapping them around his waist.

"Fuck me!" you demand, nipping at his ear lobe.

Sam jerks back from the sharp sting and your eyes meet. Through soaring lust you understand the reason you've been so drawn to him all these years. Every vestige of softness has been driven from his face. The man who was so concerned about your explicit consent is nowhere to be found. Under the frame of dark, sweat-dampened hair, Sam's face is set and nostrils flaring.

With an ease that has your belly swooping, Sam lifts you both off the mattress, keeping you locked to him with one strong arm around your back and a giant hand played across you ass. You loop your arms around his shoulders and cling to him. He rams you down, flexing his hips in a heavy surge at the same time, driving himself into you to the hilt.

Dimly, in some small portion of your brain not fizzing over with dizzy gratification, you're aware that you've never felt so stretched or so full. Even that fading through is winked out as Sam starts to flex his hips in earnest, using his hand on your waist to help slide you up and down on his cock. You moan in delight, wrapping your legs tighter around him, this time to help anchor yourself. Secure, you lean back on your palms, giving Sam a pornographic view and maximising the position for your own pleasure.

He takes advantage of the easy access to your body. The feeling of his sweeping calloused palm and hot, wet mouth on your breasts do wonderfully indecent things to you. That, along with the thick, rhythmic rasp of him sliding in and out of you, are working far too quickly. The ever present threat of an orgasm, constant since your first, is looming again and you start to moan louder as an unbearable tension builds.

The mattress begins to creak in protest as Sam thrusts hard, surging into you with increasing speed until he's plungingly wildly. _Oh good God!_ You're going to come again. Even your veins seem to hum as a spiraling pleasure shoots from your sex, constricting your muscles and flooding your brain.

Then it stops and without warning and you're flipped.

Confused. and feeling more than a little cheated, you find yourself on yourself facedown on the bed. Before you even think to push yourself up on your arms, Sam's grabbing a pillow and wrapping an arm under your hips, lifting you just enough to shove it underneath. You're just getting used to the idea when he surges inside you from behind, your eyes slam shut as tiny lights burst to life on your eyelids.

"Sam," you call out, managing to form at least one coherent word.

The pillow keeps your pelvis angled so that you're fully open to him. In this position, he can go as deep as physically possible and you've no way of limiting his depth.

The realization sets in. He's too big and if he starts hammering into you it's going to hurt...

You tense up but the pain doesn't come. Sam doesn't even pull out, he just leans over, his arms framing your shoulders and nuzzles your hair aside to kiss you neck.

"Relax," he rumbles at the shell of your ear.

Then, rolling his hips, he grounds slowly and heavily into you. Every nerve in your body sits up straight and begs. _Holy Mother of Christ_...you aren't sure but you think your eyes might have rolled all the back into your head and tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

Then he does it again.

You clamp your eyes shut to prevent an ecstatic scream and grip the bedding like it might keep you earthbound.

Sam knees your knees further apart and slides out, hovering with just the tip inside and then slides back, slow, smooth and deep, grinding into you again.

You can't hold back the muffled squeal as something akin to a pleasure electric shock shoots up your spine and spreads out in waves. You can feel yourself growing sopping wet, your body completely hyper at the pleasure it's receiving. You have no more control and you don't care one bit.

Sam grips your hips in his hands and starts a slow pump, gradually getting deeper and alternating with more of those mind-blowing grinds. You sob as pleasure reaches a level that has your heart galloping and mind reduced to little more than white noise. He hasn't touched your clit in ages but it feels like it's about to explore. Sam's plunges get heavier and heavier, faster and faster, driving deep enough that it should hurt but it doesn't because he's prepared you so well. His grunts begin to meld with your moans. You turn your head, reaching back with your hand to catch him for a kiss that's eroctic putely for it's sweetness.

Then you take the dark slide into oblivion. All sense of self evaporating in the heat of your climax. Reaching your sought after peak, you're capitulated over it as your body bears down on Sam, milking his cock.

His thrusts turn erratic as he gasps and groans with his face pressing into the curve of your neck as he comes. Grunting like a cavemen, he presses his hips into your ass, rutting as deep as he can before collapsing over your back.

The weight of him knocks a gentle _oomf_ from your lungs as you lie limp and breathless. Sam's in a similar state, panting when he turns his head to nestle the hair behind your ear.

"Sheriff," you grin, reaching behind to pat him on the ass. "I had no idea what I was missing."

Sam chuckles, propping himself up on his forearms. You feel his lips on your back, trailing down your spine between shoulder blades as he speaks. "I'll use the cuffs next time."

He pulls out with a sigh and rolls off you. Before you have a chance to move, he's doing the work, jostling you onto your side and hauling you to his chest. You fall asleep a short while later, wrapped in strong arms with the man's heat warming you from behind. You last conscious thought is of how happy you're going to be waking up in his bed.

When your eyes do flutter open the room is dark and silent. The bed is warm but you don't feel Sam and when you reach out your met with an empty pillow. Shaking away sleep, you prop yourself up, eyes adjusting in the dim light. The clock on his nightstand shines bright red numbers, it's almost 4am and Sam is missing in action.

Unable to find the light switch, you feel your way around the room, banging into his dresser and patting the floor until you find a discarded button up flannel. Stepping into the hallway there's enough light to burn your eyes as you pull on his shirt, giving no thought as it hangs open.

You wander, half asleep, down the stairs rubbing your eyes. No one should be awake at this hour but you're not going back to bed solo. Not tonight anyway.

There's a clink of glass on glass in the kitchen and you stammer in a daze, sure you've found your man. Rounding the corner you find yourself standing smack dab in front of Deputies Anderson and Rasmussen. Both men, who are mid-conversation, go silent.

Sully who's sipping a mug of coffee, lowers his drink with a bright smile on his face. "Oh hey there Y/N, what are you…" His voice trails off as his brain catches up to his mouth.

You're not as agile, standing frozen and utterly baffled as to how you found yourself in this situation.

"I...Sam and I were just…." You fumble, squinting in the light.

"Having sex?" Palmer finishes your statement without a hint of amusement.

"You might want to, um," Sully gestures to your open shirt. You look down at Sam's shirt that's covering nothing. Your left breast is completely exposed, as is the neatly trimmed thatch of pubic hair below you belly.

You can't speak, you just awkwardly pull one side of the shirt over the other. You'll be mortified in about five minutes when you have your wits about you, but right now everything is so out of place and you think you might still be asleep.

Just when things couldn't seem to get more uncomfortable, there's a warm sensation between your legs. You bite your lip as Sam's come begins a slow drip down your inner thigh.

"Sully, you head up there right now and make sure no one else goes inside. I'll-" Sam meanders into the kitchen, stopping short. "Oh shit."

"I see why you weren't picking up your phone." Palmer nods, sipping his coffee.

"Hey, let's just cover you up" Sam strides toward you, pulling your shirt closed and turns you around. He guides you out of the kitchen, hands on your shoulders. "Why don't you go back upstairs and I'll be up in a minute."

"Nice to see you!" Sully calls in his chararictscally upbeat tone. You want to die.

You're awake now, really awake and starting to wonder if embarrassment can be fatal. You crawl back in bed, dropping face first into Sam's pillow and let out a muffled cry of shame.

It's several minutes before you hear the door open and then Sam's apologetic voice. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think you'd wake up."

"Just shoot me Sam," you instruct, still face down. "Put me out of my misery."

"I don't think they really-" He hesitates, trying to decide how much to downplay that moments ago you were half naked in the kitchen with the entire Little Tall Sheriff's Department. "Saw _that_ much."

"Sully saw my boobs, he saw it all." You take a second pillow and smash it over your head.

Sam winces. There is an inherent innocence to Sully that somehow makes it worse. Palmer is an old, grump of a drunk who will never let either of you live it down, but Sully will pretend it never happened. It's always be there, unspoken and ever present.

"You want me to go down there and drop trow? Because I'll do it." Sam sits on the bed, his hand resting on the back of your thigh right below your butt cheek. "I'll show 'em everything."

You snort and dig yourself out of the pillow fort of humiliation, flopping onto your back. "I appreciate the offer."

"Just say the word," he smiles and you blush. He's almost in full uniform, dress pants and a tshirt, but that doesn't stop him from joining you in bed. His hand snakes over your stomach as he schooches closer until he's almost on top of you. You could get used to his face looking down from above, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling when he grins. "As much as I want to stay here with you, I have to go."

"No," you pout, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear. "What happened?"

His eyes shift away for a moment before refocusing. He's serious, his mouth tight. Something's happened. "It sounds like Rodney Kellogg is dead. I won't know until I get there, but Betty said his front door is wide open and he's laid out on the living room floor."

"Oh my God," you prop yourself on your elbows. "I know him, I mean more than...he taught me how to throw a softball."

"I'm sorry," Sam shakes his head. "That's why the guys are here. I didn't answer my phone so they drove out to get me. I don't wanna leave you like this but-"

"Get out of here," forcing a smile, you push him away halfheartedly. "It's fine, really, you better go."

Sam leans down and kisses you, just the soft touch of his lip, gentle as can be. "Stay here, sleep and call me when you wake up."

"I'm never leaving this bedroom again." You throw a hand over your face.

"Good." Sam pats the door frame. "I'll see you later."


End file.
